Leaves of Verse 



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JeAvell Miller Pfaltz 



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Leaves of Verse 



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Jewell Miller Pfaltz 









Copyright 1922 
Jewell Miller Pfaltz 



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MAY-DAY 

Fmc/ spun with be^auty^, 
DroTvs)^Tvitli Iragrance^, 




INSPIRATION. 

2. 

A voice across the years a message brings, 
A clarion call rings forth, and drooping heads 
Lift high. Within the vacant space of things 
A thrill shot through with joy exultant treads. 

Who gives this heaven-born message utterance? 
A life that passed a hundred years or more, — 
While I, though living, wait for this deliverance 
From mine own dumbness to life's treasured store. 

Where now is doubting — and weak slavery? 
Dare all ! — before the power of music's flown. 
And borne upon the impulse of another's bravery, 
Rise up on mightier pinions than thine own. 



THE JUNGFRAU. 

3- 

O, lofty summit, — 

Cold, — wrapped in immortal beauty: 

Aloof . . . stern ; — with majesty 

Thy noble head is crowned. 

Before thy mighty immanence 

Mortal man stands mute. 

Far off . . . below 

The blue-white clouds of mist 

Which shroud thy form 

In mystic, holy draperies, — stir softly, 

Sway . • . . and part asunder . . . 

As touched by unseen hands of Heavenly Host, 

Veil upon veil is silently withdrawn 

Until, — deep in a cradling valley, lies disclosed 

Thy glowing heart, — the Alpine Rose! 



GROWTH AND REPOSE. 



Repose is a gesture of departure, — 

Growth is a lance which seeks the light, 

A vibrant strength that bursts the clod above it, 

A flame — which dissipates the night. 

Repose brings no seeking — and no knowing. 
Growth brings a need, — a mighty prayer 
That through the darkness reaches out unspoken, 
Seeking for the God it knows is there. 

Repose has touched the infinite, — is static. 
Growth is boundless life and pain and love; 
Though terrible the way by which we seek it, 
'Tis our sole foretaste of the dawn above. 

Repose is a gesture of departure, — 

Growth is a lance which seeks the light; 

A vibrant strength that bursts the clod above it, 

A flame — which vanquisheth the night. 



THE SILENT FRIEND. 

(To My Piano.) 

You hold the dreams of yesterday, 

My silent friend. 

Still o'er thy muted strings 

Vibrate the things that were to be. 

Though I no more evoke 

Thy hidden soul from thee, 

You speak to me, — still speak to me. 

What pulsing resonance lies sleeping 

In your silent frame! 

What spell of old soft mysteries, — 

White dreams of coruscating light. 

Immortal melodies, — deep sorrow's diapason, 

All . . . all I've told to thee 

In days gone by, — in days gone by. 

What though strange other hands 

May master thee? . 

With passion search thy heart-strings, 

With power tell of moments 

Gold with magic, scintillant with joy 

And wandering fancies, — 

They are not mine, — they are not mine! 

O, when at dusk I come to thee 

And rest with longing tenderness 

Weak hands on thy pale ivories . . . 

Be thou not cold. Within your silent heart 

You hold my dreams of yesterday 

You know the things I told to you 

That no one knows, — that no one knows. 



UNDERSTANDING. 

6. 

(Scene . . . an isolated house upon the Moor.) 
The Artist's 

w^^^ "So, — this is where he comes to work, — to paint; 

Here, — to this lonely cot beside the sea. 

For this dull place he'd leave me 

And all the wealth I'd give ... to set him 

free ! 
What can he find to hold him so 
To this bleak moor? I'll enter here 
And see if there be aught I know not of. 
No, — the place seems desolate enough . . 

and yet 
What is this crouching figure by the fire? 
The creature seems as dull as this drear spot. 
Rise, girl, — or phantom ... or what e'er 

you are, 
Art dumb, ... or merely rude? 
Take off that dull gray cap which binds your 

hair 
And drop that heavy cloak which hides your 

form. 
Stand back! . . . your hair released's a living 

thing, 
A touch that burns . . . yet chills me through! 
Where have I seen your elfin form. — 
Those lambent eyes that shine from out your 

wistful face? 
Ha! . . . now I understand . . . 
It is for you he visits this bleak place, — 
'Tis not the mystery of the lea . . . 
'Tis not the grandeur of the sea. 
Speak, girl, — and tell me your disgrace!" 



Will o' the Wisp, 

the girl 

"O, woman with the cold proud face, 

I am the living soul of all he drew, — 

I am all in him you never knew. 

Why would you rise between my well-beloved 

and me?" 
"You dim his spirit like a cloud 
And kill it with your dark and somber eyes. 
You hide his soul as in a shroud, — 
From me he caught the secrets of this wondrous 

place 
And now ... I never know a dreamless 

sleep. 
With eyes of understanding love 
We watch the changing sea, — the sky above, 
With touch as soft as gossamer I seek to heal 
The endless conflict in his breast — and steal 
For him release from your cold austerity. 
I am the ripple of sedge grass upon the lea 
That bends beneath the wind's caressing 

hand, — 
I am the quivering light that leaps 
A fugitive, — from crested wave to greet the 

land! 
In me he sees a vision fair — with winged feet 
That floats like distant music far ahead. 
And beckons his imprisoned spirit to create 
That upon which his soul and mind have fed. 
The flame within him knows my kindling 

breath, 
I seek to bring from out the Autumn mists of 

you 
A glowing fire of Youth and Artistry. 
Through me he finds a birth — from death." 
"Now have you come to rend from me 
The wings of my delight? 
Come out, — the moor is calling me . . . 
Come forth . . . into the night!" 



The Wife, 



"Cease, child, — your burning eyes 

Pierce me with a strange disquietude! 

Your luminous hair is Hke a subtle net . . . 

A weird soft mist that waves between, — 

The hurtling spray drifts from the lea 

And fastens glistening tear-drops in its sheen, 

Art real? — or just a flitting light from off the 

moor? 
How strange the gestures of your slim 

nude arms, 
Art dancing sprite . . . or warning vision f 
Nay, — touch me not, — I shrink, 
I will not follow thee, — 'tis my decision! 
What hidden power is this that draws me on 
Swift, — and ever swifter toward the sea? 
The waves are pounding loud against the 

cliffs, — 
Your spirit's veiled, — yet holds a deadly power. 
Child, child, — ^you shall not draw me 
With your eerie frailty! 
How cold, — how strange the moon . . . 

what clouds, 
The foaming surf . . . the hungry arms of 

night, 
O, dizzy moment on the cold and lichened 

rocks — 
I fall . . . the very stars are blotted from 

my sight ..." 



Still there upon the cliffs she stands — 
A spell ... a glimmering light 
That holds him all. 



A MANUSCRIPT. 

7. 

Clear drops upon the window-pane tonight, 

And over all the earth a failing light. 

I'll browse a bit . . . 

Within this old brown secretaire, 

I wonder what 1 now may find is there? 

What's this . . . this paper old — 

Like citron flower? 

What magic memory does now unfold . . . 

How passing strange, — from my lax hands 

'Tis swiftly vanished . . . and there 

Across the room he stands 

And holds the faded paper in his hands. 

His steel blue eyes, with genius alight, 

Fuse into mine across the years tonight. 

"And came this thought from you, my child? 

Its theme is great, — a promise rare it holds." 

The place is empty where he stands . . . 

Naught but the paper in my hands. 

How came the gift to pass me by, — 

Was it too great for such as I? 

I cannot see, without, the fading light . . . 

There're drops upon the window-pane tonight. 



RUSSIA. 

8. 

Suggested by The Prelude, C# Minor. 

Sergei Rachmaninoff. 

Dread voice of doom, — in cataclysmic tones 

The vast stern will for all has spoken. 

Numb with shock, heavy with impending fate — 

The mind of man stands still . . . arrested . . . 

void. 
Through pregnant silence, at first but dimly 

understood, 
Too late he tries with the clasped hands of prriyer 
To reach his God. No answer there. 
Then each to the other turns . . . till over all the 

land 
A mighty voice of anguish grows to hate 
As caught between another's need and his 
Each would rend the other to escape ! 
Driven before the blast of relentless fate, — 
With clenched hands of frenzy that would defy, 
With upflung arms of wild despair 
They pass, — a litany of grief. 
Across the cold gray steppes toward dawn. 



Then . . . broken on the wheel of suffering, 

Spent with a common sorrow, — at last 

Hand clasps hand in need of brotherhood. 

So in dumb acceptance on, — still on they go 

Across the cold gray steppes toward dawn — 

Though not for them its light shall ever glow. 

A whispering wind haunts o'er the desolation of the 

scene, 
Gaunt gibbets arms thrown black against on empty 

sky,— 
While over all this dark mirage of life, — 
So vaguely heard, so dimly understood, 
A tremulous dawn is spreading. 
Yet . . . when I would believe 
Its quickening glory presages man's goal, 
Swift shadows intervene of those who are no more. 
I grieve ... as darkness over me enfolds, — 
Do I then with God perceive 
The silent passing of men's souls 
That were so vaguely heard, — 
So dimly understood? 



ACHIEVEMENT. 



Great riven oak that in the forest stands, 
What though around your isolation 

Waves the green of Hving branches? 

Their shielded Hves no blasting power has sought,- 
Their lesser souls reached not the height 

Which made you desolate, — apart. 

'Twas you who bore the shock of lightning flash 
Which tore the fissure in your living side. 

The gaping wound you could not hide, — 

And yet with twisted thoughts you bore the pain 
Which made your writhen branches speak, — 

You did not pass unsatisfied. 

Into the great abiding earth 

Your clutching roots thrust deep, so deep — 
Still in the source which gave you birth 
You cling with mighty strength to your identity. 

What though around your desolation 
Waves the green of living branches? 

Great riven oak which in the forest stands, 

Leave them their touch of futile green — 
Their brief hour of utter insignificance. 
You caught blue flame from Heaven 
Their shielded lives can never know, — 

Though riven, still nobly stand 
And hold with bitter strength to your identity. 

Nor blight, nor storm, nor cruel pain 

Could make you pass unsatisfied. 



THE GLEN. 

lO. 

Deep cradled in the encircling hills 
A lovesome spot lies dreaming, — 

A place of whispering leaves that stills 
All thought. Great quiet firs 

Stand sentinel about the glen — 

To guard its silver dreams, its laughing rills. 

And ever through its softly swaying branches 

Sifts glimmering light — that moves with fairy 
grace 

From place to place. Its gleaming all entrances; — 
The liquid pearl upon a bending leaf, 

The shy and timid squirrel — busy with his hoard. 

The slender birch — enamoured of her fancies. 

Could we but stay the glory of the passing hours. 
Forever hold its memory to our hearts, — 

Retain the fragile beauty of the rhododendron flowers 
That made luminous the dusky depths of 
green,— 

The pungent scent of crushed fern beneath the feet 

And all the evanescent loveliness that made it ours! 

Deep cradled in the encircling hills 

A lovesome spot lies dreaming, — 
A place of whispering leaves . . . that stills 

All thought. Great quiet firs 
Stand sentinel around the glen 
To guard its silver dreams, its smiling rills 
And ever throus^h the softly swaying branches 

Drifts glimmering light. 



II, 



HEALING. 

Beethoven's Cft Minor Sonata. 
(Adagio Sostenuto) 



Afar . . . o'er the hollow night 

The great moon swings and swings, 

Till through the empty spaces 

Its silver beauty gleams with light. 

And ever over the orb of its serenity, 

Its white compassion, . . . 

Steal tender little veils of pity . . . cloud veils. 

It seeks a lonely home within a distant valley 

Where darkness dwells . . . 

And makes it beautiful with mystic promises. 

A woman's bended head, within a cabined window, 

lifts . . . 
Her yearning eyes seek the soft radiance 
And through her dark hair she feels again 
The touch of lost fingers stray lingeringly. 
Deep eyes — grown clear and fixed with vision 
Penetrate the night ... its great quiet arms 
Receive her wordless prayer 
And bears aloft the hidden fullness of the hour. 

While afar in serene silence. 

The great moon swings and swings — 

And ever over the face of its white 

compassion 
Steal tender veils of pity . . . cloud veils. 



LONGING. 

12. 

Kamennoi Ostrow . . . Rubenstein. 

Night and stillness holds my thought 
Suspended . . . timeless ; by yearning tendrils 

caught 
Unto the past. There clings a spell of old . . . 
Until most vividly 'tis fraught. 
In whispering winds you're calling me 

Across the fields of memory. 

Hark, — a soft bell peals from out a tower . . . 
Again . . . and yet again! Your spirit comes to 

mine 
With the mellow radiance of a white, white flower 
And binds my soul with silver cords to thine. 
Across the space that's widened — deepened. 

Across the fields of memory — and time. 

O, love that found no utterance — was stilled. 
With longing hands I'm bearing back to you 
My crystal vase of youth . . . unfilled 
Through all the years that held you true 
With yearning inarticulate, — you knew, you knew 
That I'd be coming back to you 
Across the fields of memory. 

Float on — thou silver — noted bell that's calling me. 
Shine on — thou vanished radiance of a white, white 

flower. 
I search for you — I yearn for you 
Across the hours I feed upon, 
Across the fields of memory 

I follow . . . follow on. 



MIRACLES. 

13- 

I took a walk, — a tiny walk around my garden small, 
And all about its borders was barren earth, — that's 

all. 
But I was thrilled and waiting, for buried things lay 

there ; 
It was a secret no one knew, — I hid them there last 

fall! 

I took a walk, — a tiny walk around my garden small. 
And fragrant hands did greet me of lilies fair and 

tall. 
Such smiling eyes of deepest hue looked up with joy 

to mine, 
'Twas like a bit of heaven's own blue caught in a 

chalice small. 

I took a walk, — a lingering walk about the place in 

fall; 
Full richer every hue had grown — and taller every 

flower. 
All stirring through the leaves and plants a deeper 

note was toned. 
For they had lived from youth to age and learned 

much in their hour. 

'Tale ghost of little lily bud, — dim eye of scylla blue. 
But stay with me, — O stay with me, and do not 

wander far." 
"Bend down your head," they whispered, "and close 

your eyes quite tight." 
"Have you forgot our secret, — the secret hidden 

quite? 
You know just where we are!" 



THE OVERTURE. 
14. 

To the Mid-Summer Night's Dream 
(Mendelssohn) 

Come, — let's be girls again tonight, Annette, 

Just girls ! 

Forget the years that lie between. 

Take off your crown of motherhood — 

And I'll doff mine. 

We're girls again, just girls. 

Come, — seated at the same dear instrument 

We'll play again that dream of nymphs and fairies. 

How light your fragile fingers touch the keys 

While I enweave the inner harmonies. 

What magic spell! — a fairy's ring does now 

enshrine 
A woodland dell. Come tripping feet, 
Come laughing eyes and shine anew, — 
Titania, your fairy Queen has summoned you! 
Puck, circle round the globe — be quick as light — 
King Oberon doth keep his revels here tonight. 

From out the bosky dell — Nick Bottom's loud 

guffaw, — 
Come Peaseblossom, crown his head, 
Come Cobweb, — one and all! 
Too soon across the dusk we hear the call 
From copse to tree of muted bird! 
The fairy ring has vanished quite . . . 

Must all to silence fall? 

Did we invoke a spell tonight 

That shall release us from this real unreal — 

Make tangible a dream that ne'er befell? 

Yes, — 'twas a real Mid-Summer dream, — and yet 

Ah, — were we really girls tonight, — Annette? 



MOTHERHOOD. 

15- 

I ask you not, OLife, that in myself I may fulfill 
One perfect sequence, one loved but selfish aim. 
The crying- urge of life may not for me 
Be answered with fruition — and no pain. 

But help me build each day, each hour 
A span of my own years and its deep need, 
That younger lives than mine may seeing know 
A finer wisdom and a broader creed. 

Then when the modulation's o'er and I look back- 
Though I may see naught in myself complete, 
Yet I shall know I built a bridge for them to pass 
From mine own minor harmonies to major 
joys . . . and life replete. 



i6. 



SUMMER NIGHT 



Fireflies dart in dusky places, 
Points of light and sparks aglow; 
Thoughts as bright are my undoing. 
If you knew, — do you know? 

Heavenly softness stirs the darkness, 
Gleams the lambent moon on high; 
Skimming through the dusky tree tops 
Shadowy things go flitting by. 

Rapturous languor folds about me. . . 
From the cool and silent night 
Dream-like arms enchain and hold me 
Motionless . . . lest they take flight. 

Soft, — a rustling through the arbor 
Shakes the scented lilacs free, 
In the hush of night I breathe not — 
It is thee, — it is thee ! 



i8. 



IN DAYS OF OLD 



In days of old 
Upon a castle rampart walked 
A stately lady, — fair and cold. 
The sea moaned low 
Against the crumbled gray stone wall, 

To it her heart she told. 

Does no one know — 

Does no one care 
That I am stately, tall and fair? 
O day by day I walk alone. . . 
But you, — you cold and senseless stone, 

You know a wave's caress. 

Alone I watch the ruddy glow 
Of sun upon your vast smooth breast, 
At night your silvered ripples flow — 
In gentle rhythms ebb and rest 
Beneath my silent castle wall. . . 
Such beauty leaves my sense oppressed. 

If no one knows, 

If no one cares 
To share the love my heart does hide — 
Then would, O sea, that I could rest 
Upon your moaning quiet breast 

And feel a wave's caress. 



RIVER OF LIFE. 
19. 

(3 swiftly flowing river, 
A rushing to the sea, — 
Why do you go forever 
Away, away from me? 

O, know you not, fair river, 
A rushing toward the sea, — 
There you'll be lost forever . . . 
Will you not stay with me ? 

No! proudly sings the river, 
I rush on to the sea, — 
Though I be lost forever 
I would not stay with thee!" 

"If still I lie, 't will pass me by. 
So boundless . . . and so free. 
The sea, — the great, the open sea 
Forever holds for me 
A larger life, a greater death 
Than 1 could learn from thee!" 



AT DAWN. 

20. 

Fair dawn must know no fetters — 
O fair the day and wide, . . . 
The rosy blushing of the sky 
Is spreading like a tide. 

My heart at dawn no fetters knew,- 
So fair the day and tide. 
At dusk it hid a vine from view, 
With tendrils far and wide. 



WAITING. 

21. 

What whispers softly through the leaves of spring? 
What sighs among the baring boughs in fall . . . 
And promises with every opening bud and hour 
A hidden ecstacy, — a golden thrall. 

What lights the eyes of youth? 

An ardent glow, a dancing gleam 

Speaks of high hopes and treasures far ahead, 

Which life shall answer with its glorious theme. 

What know the eyes of age? 

Which forward see — and backward look. 

A long, long waiting as each day — each page 

Is turned, with hoping hands, in life's great book. 



TRAUMEREI . . . SCHUMANN. 

22. 

(At Twilight, — by a Dying Fire.) 

Enchantment's in the air tonight, 
Warm .magic in the fire, — 
Deep glowing in its embers bright 
I see my heart's desire. 

My head rests soft against your breast . . 
Your hand is on my hair, — 
O, dear and changeless memory, 
I know that you are there. 

There's magic in this room tonight . . . 
Enchantment in the fire, — 
But . . . dying like its embers bright 
So must my heart's desire. 



23- 



MOON-MIST 



Moon-mist, — frost-white, — and fog 

From off the sea . . . 
Wrap thy chill arms about me 

For I am cold as thee. 

I've waited for the harvest moon, 

The gold moon, the full moon . . . 

O, star that promised me, — 

Thou'rt gone, — and but a lonely crescent 
Gleams white upon the sea. 

'Tis a mere ghost of glory . . . 

A thing that mocketh me, 
Slim wraith that hidden lies 
Behind a wrack of driven clouds 

Athwart the midnight skies. 

Moon-mist, — frost-white, — and fog 

From off the sea, — 
Wrap thy chill arms about me 

For I am cold . . . like thee. 



TREACHERY. 

24. 

Ocean, thy vast calm countenance 
Gleamed white from shore to shore. 
In stately rolling billows flowed 
Thy measure ever more. 

No sign gave thou ... no warning 
Of thy cruel heart's unrest, 
Of thy bitter ancient hunger 
For the life upon thy breast. 
With deep mysterious murmurings 
Thou lulled him on to rest. 

Then up thou tossed 
Thy fierce white arms . . . 
Gaunt arms that writhed with foam, 
Till over man's defenseless head 
A shattering grave was thrown. 
Thy vengeance wreaked, — thy frenzy o'er 
Then still . . . how still, 
Thou cruel sea! 



THE OLD QUAKER MEETING 
HOUSE, FLUSHING 

Erected in 1695. 
25- 

Calm and ever faithful stands the quiet old brown 

house, 
Apart from all the tumult of the way, — 
Where Friend to Friend through silence speaks 
In loving fellowship, — at close of day. 

In years gone by, when slave beneath the yoke was 

bent, 
A refuge thou! Four-square to thy true intent 
Of human liberty, thy sheltering arms out-stretched 
O'er low defenseless heads — until the foe was spent. 

In our today, a world of war and wild alarms. 

To friend and foe alike thy message brings 

A sanctuary. When false patriotism wrings the 

bruised heart 
Still steadfast thou and to thy strength the troubled 

spirit clings. 

Unto the calmly gathered thought the Inner Voice 
Of right makes known the way. And reconciliation 
Soothes deep hate to yield, — and in that yielding 
Does disclose a broader faith, — a world-wide Nation. 

A healing touch on wistful seeking hearts is laid. 
Through friendly fellowship at close of day, 
Where calm and ever faithful stands the quiet old 

brown house, — 
Apart from all the tumult of the way. 



A FRIENDLY VISIT. 
26. 

Asleep ... in safely cloistered ground 

They rest, — a gentle peace embraces all. 

By vine and clinging tendril caught, 

The ivy holds with loving hands the low gray wall. 

A coverlet of densest green lies soft 

Upon their sleeping. While overhead 

The ancient trees that weave aloft 

Leave traceries of gold and shade upon their bed. 

Into this dear and cloistered spot 

Come children, from the teeming city brought; 

The sad gray ambulance bespeaks their lot. 

Each tiny crippled form by friendly hands is caught, 

And swung with tender touch upon the plot 

Bestrewn with buttercups and stars of Bethlehem. 

Dulled eyes grow bright as violets are sought 

By little Elvie, — she of the wizened face, poor tot. 

With pathos deep their shrunken limbs are fraught, 
These little ones. And yet they're taught 
Through suffering to keener know the joy of 

banished things. 
So eagerly they rest beneath the trees — at story hour. 



A bird, — a areamer he, of sapphire wings, 
Seems all a-tiptoe as he swing and swings 
And sings as though he had invented Spring 
With all its myriad blooms . . . and every joyous 
thing ! 

Too soon the happy day is sped, — 

And now each stunted form is led into the shade 

Of the Old Meeting House, — where bed 

On bed of glorious rose, and iris, too 

(In Flushing's gardens rare and old they grew) 

Their heavenly hue and fragrance shed, — 

Till tiny outstretched arms are heaped with beauty. 

Great nodding snowballs touch their bended faces 

And wave farewell from the old ambulance. 

The spaces that were sad and gray — are all aglow 

with smiling eyes ! 
Goodbyes are said with winning graces. 
How well I know that those who sleep 
Ha^'e heard the patter of the tiny feet, 
And gladly share their peaceful cloistered ground 
That children in the teeming city found 

May have a memory sweet. 



MEMORIES. 

27. 

O, little lonely room whose treasure lies 

Safe hidden from all alien eyes, 

Vouchsafe me now one hour. 

A listening heart bends here 

To hear again with memory's ear 

One dear age — sweet refrain. 

Thus sacred have I kept you starry moment 

Which lifted me above life's drag and torment. 

Shine forth again one hour! 

That rested and refreshed I may arise 

To fill my dusty place in life's disguise . . . 

And none may know my secret strength. 



VICTORY, 

28. 

A creeping thought came near me in the night . . . 
A dread, a horror cold — without a frame. 
And mid the darkness I did stretch forth my hand 
To feel the features of a face held low with shame. 
I turned my head — and would not speak its name. 

Yet ... in the hidden recess of my mind I knew. 
Its darkening memory dogged my steps by day, 
And ever fewer grew my joys and narrower my 

view, — 
While in the shadows lurked that nameless thing 

to slay. 
I turned my head — and thrust it from my way. 

Dread fear of mine, stand forth and face the light ! 
No longer shall I flinch, and shrinking hide — that 
you may see 

How best to master me, till life's high hopes die by 
thy blight. 

And barren grows my way — while you go free. 
I turned my head, — lo, naught was there in sight. 



PURSUIT AND REALIZATION. 

29. 

"White hands of beauty gleaming through your veils, 
What hold you close in lovely palms enshrined? 
Reach forth, — cleave through the mists . . . 
Hide not your treasure longer from mine eyes! 
Reveal it now, — my spirit yearning waits." 
The silver gleaming shrinks afar from me . . . 
'Tis gone, — and back this answer floats: 
"Elude thee ever shall I, — 
My priceless treasure veiled shall ere remain, 
But seize it, mortal man, thou'lt seek me never 

more. 
Apart from thee I ever hold it high 
That you may alway seek for beauty fugitive . . . 
Which those who sought and found — 

Have long dismissed." 



30- 



LITTLE GOLD BUTTERFLY 

"Ceaselessly quivering 

On gossamer wings. 
Darting and soaring 
Midst delicate things 
What seek you butterfly? 

The perfume, the warmth — 
Where the sun spills its gold 
On cobwebs that shimmer 
On flowers that unfold 
With the dawn?" 

"I seek wallflower honey 
And the dew-laden cup 
Of a translucent lily — 
Its face lifted up 
For the kiss that I bring. 

I skim like a breeze 

That is born at morn 

To the heart of a bud 

That is all forlorn ; — 

Then I rest like a fan 

That is folded up 

On the edge of a buttercup." 

"Ceaselessly quivering 
On gossamer wings, 
Darting and soaring 
Midst delicate things — 
You are part of my heart 
As it sings. — as it sings, 
Little gold butterfly!" 



A DEBT. 

31. 

You have opened the doors of the temple, 

You have led us to the stars. 

Though in your lives you could not reach 

The heights that stir our hearts. 

Through pain and struggle, joy and fears, 

You kept it from defeat apart . . . 

And so was born on earth to us 

Rich legacy of art. 

'Tis not enough to share your joys, 

To capture your sweet ecstasies: 

That you have not passed in vain. 

We give our growing souls 

A crucible to know your pain . . . 

Our hearts a chalice for your tears. 



CHAINS. 
32- 

Prone, — lashed upon this whirling plane of earth 

By weakness fettered, — bound, 

I gaze and see afar the eagle wheel 

And cleave the sky, — up, up into the blazing sun. 

My eyes do follow him till these dull moorings 

drop away from me. 
Then something in me severs — and leaps free, 
Apart from that dull thins: which stays behind, — 
And I do rise. Swifter than light 
I flash through space until o'er some far land 
I poise . . . and earthward look. 
What wonders greet mine eyes! 
A vast and surging river bears majestic ships to sea, 
Full laden with glorious stuffs of glowing hues, — 
Exotic fruits that bleed with pungent perfume of 

rich dews. 
I feel the throbbing pulse and beauty of it, — 
Exultant but unseen I join the gallant crew that 

fares to sea. 
A wooing breeze does win our silken sails as we, 
Bearing treasures of rare jewels and pale ivories, 

watch them unfold. 
Still out and on we sail, — on to a far off golden 

strand 
Where trains of proud camels undulate against a sky 

of gold. 



Deep bathed in sun great stately palms do g^ive us 
royal greeting, 

And all about our vessel's throbbing a phosphores- 
cent spray is fanned 

By zephyrs soft and fleeting. 

They stir the quivering leaves of that fair shore, 

Revealing golden goblets of lush fruits whose purple 
blossoms promise more. 

The sun-kissed vista draws all into one warm and 
vast embrace 

Till thrilled with life and its deep rhythm 

The senses sinking, — faint . . . and I 
awake . . . 

Ah, no! — still motionless am I 

And look into that dull gray street 

Where lies the sodden snow. 

Yet I know the day shall surely come 

When these weak helpless arms of mine 

Shall twine about the pillars of life's temple 

Swift into them shall enter all the surge of ocean,... 

The lightning flash of eagles' wings, — 

And all the mighty urge and sweep of things without 

Will fill this dull clinging shell of me 

Till it lies riven! Then — then shall I arise, 
Then shall I go free. 



ETERNITY. 
33' 

Rest, — the tumult and the clamor stilled . 
Here all lay down what they have willed,- 
Be it love ... or martyrdom, 



Shall never know again. 



Closed are the tortured eyes of pain 
Sleep, — nor ask to see again, 
From that unfathomable deep 
Is no return. 



THE MOCKER. 

34- 

The garden is gold-splashed with filtered sunlight, 

Slanting through the glamour of old trees 
That long have shaded lichened walks 

Where linger memories like these — 
My thoughts of yesterday. 
O'er head, perched upon the highest twig, 

Full-throated and emphatic, 
The mocker trills and fills the air 

With melodies ecstatic. 
Hark! . . . now he is the meadow lark 

And now the tiny wren, — 
A crow, the thrush that sings at eve . . . 

Again, the plaintive veery. 
For ever changing is his note. 

He swings — and pours 
From out his quivering throat 

A wealth of borrowed beauty. 
Then swift — his lifted breast 

Has flashed through waving branch — 
And he is gone! 
What has he left me in the silence 

Of his passing? 
Though he shaped the song of every 

Winged thing that flies. 
He gave me not one note that was his own. 

I'd rather be the humblest thing that tries 
To utter one true thought from its own story 

Than scatter all his liquid notes 
Of proud — but stolen glory! 



FIGLIA MIA. 
35- 

Dear little daughter of mine — 
With eyes serene and true, 
With your quiet gentle ways — , 
So calm, so fair you grew. 
Unto my restless spirit brought 
Such dear and tender hours; — 
I think God knew . . . 
How much I needed you, — 
Dear little daughter of mine. 



CASTLE OF DREAMS. 

Castle of dreams, — 
Castle of dreams 

That I see in the clouds of light, 
Of what are you made? 
Of the white moonbeams 
And a prayer — and a hope 
And the night? 



A LYRE OF GOLD. 

37- 

See . . . April in her blue and silver robe, 

Pale orchids in her hair. 
Is coming- slowly down the aisle 

Of Winter's marble stair. 

And April's brought her lyre of gold 
So slanting showers of rain 

May play across the lucent strings 
A lay we'd hear again! 

And as she plays she listens, 

Counts wealth of pearls untold — 

That from the dark earth glistens 
When tiny buds unfold. 

For April is no goddess — 

Like June, the stately thing, 

But bends . . . an.d croons a Mother's song 
In the nurseries of Spring. 



-^: 



